Can't Start a Fire Without
by lynne-monstr
Summary: "Let me get this straight," Eliot said. "You called me about a fake fire to get me to come over for cookies. Which then became a real fire and ruined the cookies. Now you want me to make you cookies so you can give the cookies to me. That sum it up?" (Eliot/Hardison/Parker)


_Written for comment_fic for the prompt: if you're supposed to bake something at 350 degrees for 30 minutes, whatever you do, do not bake it at 500 degrees for 10._

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><p>There was smoke billowing from under the door of Hardison's penthouse apartment. After checking the knob for heat, Eliot did the only reasonable thing that came to mind. He broke it down.<p>

And froze. The scene he was expecting after getting the garbled but frantic-sounding call (_Hardison in some sort of danger, Hardison hurt or in trouble, Hardison needing him to be there _now_ and what if he was too slow this time_) was not the scene before him. There were no bad guys, no weapons, no unconscious bodies, not even a drop of spilled blood.

Instead it was only Hardison. An oven mitt in one hand, a tablet computer gripped tight in the other, and wearing an apron that read "Wizard in the Kitchen" in the most offensive shade of orange Eliot had ever seen. And a room full of smoke that seemed to center on the oven.

"You called me in for this?" Dropping the cutting knives he'd plucked from the butcher's block on the counter, Eliot threw his hands in the air. Then thought better of it and lifted the hem of his t-shirt to cover his mouth against the smoke.

If he hadn't been busy rolling his eyes, he would have seen Hardison's gaze flick down to the bare patch of skin before hastily jerking away. As it was, he pressed on, unaware. "That's it, I'm done," he said, voice muffled through the thin fabric. "Clean up this mess yourself. And how 'bout next time you don't call me in a panic for a damn cooking accident."

"Accident? This ain't no damn accident, it's a full on food service disaster." With that, he deflated, reminding Eliot more of a puppy who'd just been scolded for peeing on the rug rather than the genius he actually was. "This was supposed to be a surprise for Parker."

"Oh, she's gonna be surprised."

Eliot smoothed down his shirt and looked around the usually pristine kitchen—pristine from lack of use, that is. Smoke still lingered in the air, though thankfully most of it was dispersing out the open window. The remnants of flour, sugar, and eggs were scattered across the countertops, and impressively enough, a single spot on the ceiling. There were dirty bowls everywhere. The pièce de résistance however, was a still smoking sheet of what looked like charcoal lumps sitting askew on the stovetop amidst the various debris. "Somehow I don't think Parker likes her Christmas cookies extra crispy. By which I mean inedible."

"Aw, come on man. Don't be like that." Hardison set down the tablet computer and tossed the oven mitt aside with a defeated sigh. The apron got draped over a barstool. "And for the record, you kind of owe me a new door."

Eliot ignored him, intent on getting out of this whole farce with his dignity intact, if not his smoke-saturated clothing. Absently, he ran a hand through his hair. Smoke was a bitch to wash out. What a goddamned mess. And to top it off, he'd missed his date with the feisty redhead he met at a local dive bar a few nights back. He really had dropped everything when he'd gotten Hardison's frantic call, thinking the hacker was in some kind of real trouble. Looked like he was in for a night of prerecorded football and beer on the couch. Alone. Just freaking great.

Curiosity got the better of him, and he stepped deeper into the kitchen instead of leaving. "How'd you even mess this up, anyway? Baking's like science, man. That's your thing. With the whole—you know," he flapped his hand at Hardison, "that whole geek love-in you had with the laser and all."

"Um, yeah well," Hardison fidgeted. "Science is about learning. It's about experimentation, you hear? So yeah, I was…experimenting. With the cooking times."

That earned him a raised eyebrow. "Experimenting?" Oh yeah, this oughta be good.

"You know. If the recipe says cook for half an hour at 350 degrees. I wanted to know where the margins were. Could I cook them at 500 for ten minutes? How about 425 for fifteen? Or—"

"There's your answer, genius," Eliot cut him off before he could spew any more nonsense, pointing to the blackened monstrosities on the counter. "You can't play fast and loose with baking like that. That's why so many chefs don't bake. It requires precision. Exact measurements, exact timing. You got it?"

Hardison nodded. "Does this mean you'll help me fix it? Parker's gonna be here in," he checked his watch, "oh shit, like ten minutes. We can at least get fresh ones in the oven by then, right?"

Eliot scoffed. "Experiments, huh? You sure you didn't just want them to bake faster?"

Hardison jammed a finger in his direction. "Now you're just being rude." Barely pausing for breath, he started pacing in a tight circle, words spilling from his lips like the steady flow of a river. "Oh man, I made it snow our first Christmas and now I'm never gonna top that. I am so screwed and not in the good way, if you know what I'm talking about."

Something in Eliot's chest tightened at that. "I'm not gonna help you seduce your girlfriend. I told you before, I don't think about you two like that."

Yeah, and if he kept telling himself that, it might even make it true.

Hardison got a funny look on his face then. He mumbled something Eliot didn't quite catch.

"What? Speak up, Hardison."

Hardison bit his lip, but did as requested. "I _said_, they weren't just for Parker."

"What, you got another girl I don't know about?" Eliot took a menacing step forward, managing to loom despite their height difference. "That Parker doesn't know about?"

Wide eyes looked down at him. "What!? Do I got a—what?" Hardison sputtered and shook his head, then froze like a deer in the headlights, focused on a point just over Eliot's shoulder. Like he couldn't even look at him. Then his features smoothed out and he met Eliot's eyes. Took a deep breath and slowly let it out. "Nah, man. I meant, you." He gave a shake of his head somewhere between fond and exasperated. "The cookies were for _you_, too." He paused. "Back me up here, baby girl."

What the—Eliot spun as he realized that last line hadn't been aimed at him. And there was Parker, perched on the windowsill for god even knew how long. The last lingering tendrils of smoke swirled around her head, giving the impression that she had literally poofed up out of thin air. Eliot wasn't convinced that she hadn't. Parker had a way about her that made the impossible seem not only possible, but likely.

She gave a short, happy wave that lit up her whole face. "Hi Eliot."

"Hey Parker." He looked between the two of them, wondering when exactly this night had gone from weird to crazy. "What's going on here?"

They both looked abashed, glancing at each other in some unspoken communication before focusing on him. Parker pressed her lips together. "Hardison was supposed to get you here. Now you're here." She wrinkled her nose. "I didn't think setting the kitchen on fire was part of the plan though."

"Hey! You need _fire_ to start a kitchen fire. This was a smoke-only culinary disaster." He glanced forlornly at the burnt cookies. "That really wasn't part of the plan though."

"Let me get this straight," Eliot said. "You called me about a fake fire to get me to come over for cookies. Which then became a real fire and ruined the cookies. Now you want me to make you cookies so you can give the cookies to me. That sum it up?"

"Yup, sounds right," Parker confirmed, hopping off the window and past Eliot to stand shoulder to shoulder with Hardison. Their fingers twined together as she asked, "Hardison, that sound right to you?"

Hardison nodded slowly and then they both looked at him. "There's kind of one more thing."

Eliot raised a hand to his head in a vain attempt to massage away the headache starting to form there. "And that is…?"

"We don't just want to eat cookies with you," Hardison started, and what the hell did that mean?

"We want to _eat cookies with you_," Parker finished. Like repeating it made it make any more sense.

It wasn't until they took a step forward that he started to get a clue. Another put them right up in his personal space. Looking back, he would blame his initial lack of comprehension on the fact that not even in his most vivid dreams did he ever let himself consider that this might be a possibility. That he might be allowed—that they might want—

But just like that, there it was.

He laughed. Let the two of them pull him into an embrace. His hand snug around Parker's waist; Hardison's hand tucked into the back pocket of his jeans. Like they were always supposed to be there.

There was only one thing to say at this point.

"Guess I'm making cookies."


End file.
